


The bones

by shittershutter



Category: Logan - Fandom, Wolverine (Movies)
Genre: M/M, wolverce - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-04
Updated: 2017-04-04
Packaged: 2018-10-14 20:09:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10543618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shittershutter/pseuds/shittershutter
Summary: “Look at you,” Logan mumbles. “You’re such a fucking mess, kid”.





	

**Author's Note:**

> * There are mentions of self-harm and PTSD.
> 
> * Unbetad
> 
> * This pairing needs more (any) porn.

“I can cut it off if this is what you’re going for,” Logan finally suggests. “Slice it up to your fucking neck, like it was never even there”.

The claws are buzzing under his skin the way they haven’t in a while, so close to the surface.

They’re sitting outside the doctor’s office under the pouring rain, waiting for the sky to clear up a little so Logan can see shit and drive.

Don is cradling an arm cast against his chest, pointedly silent.

It takes him years to crack the bone real good. But then again, he’s a former professional, inventive and clever about inflicting pain on himself or others.

“Whatever fucking debt you think you’re repaying with this, I don’t need it. You can keep all of this to yourself”.

“I’m trying to,” Don slurs through the for of the painkiller high they’ve pumped him full of.

The nurse sneaks Don a shelter card, mistaking him for a battered spouse — he honestly tells her he’s a combat veteran and it works mighty fine until she sees the bite marks — Don’s had a rough month. The bruises are just cruel, but the bites are creepy and personal.

The doctor — bless him — studies the angles of the angry teeth and gives him the self-harm support group brochure coupled with an another dose of a painkiller just to level him off.

Don throws away both and gets himself a bucket of barbecue wings instead while Logan is busy faking signatures at the reception left and right. He’s munching on joints and tendons, completely unbothered by the metaphor, and Logan is left with staring — it’s a glare at first, but then it softens.

He can feel it go, brow relaxing until he’s stuck with something like disbelief and fondness.

He has made a promise long ago and he is grabbing these peaceful seconds where he can get them. He gets maybe two or three before Don shoves a chicken wing into his face, smearing the bloody sauce all over the beard.

And even though he smacks Don in the head, he has to accept the offering and then lick the fingers in his mouth clean. Just to keep the car unstained, he tells himself.

***

Don sleeps the high off for the rest of the day. In the early hours of the morning, Logan is awoken by the blue eyes on him, staring intently.

The face he sees in semi-darkness is hard, focused.

Don reaches for his hand, balls it into a fist and puts it under his own jaw like he would use a shotgun if he ever wanted to get everything over with. In the dim light of the early morning they both freeze. He’s two layers of skin away from the deadliest blades and they both savor that feeling.

Logan can feel the claws buzzing again under the old meat. He growls and tries to tear his hand away, but Don holds on, nails digging into the wrist.

He tries again in a while, carefully, as soon as the other man’s breathing slows down, and presses his mouth where the knuckles have just been. And for the time being, when he closes his eyes really tight, he can feel the man’s warmth under him, the loud heartbeat and the soft breaths leaving him, and that’s it.

Then he feels hot tears rolling down the cheeks and getting on his own. He waits for them to pass — they will, they do — and he rubs his face against Don’s throat, bringing him back little by little.

The other man moves under him like a snake, long limbs taking him in, thighs locking around his ribcage. Don’s hand, the one he can use, his only hand in his opinion, comes into his hair, stroking, scratching.

They kiss — he’s shocked for a moment how dry Don’s lips are, how it takes time for him to wet and relax them — but then Don’t tongue comes in, hungry and aggressive, and he gets him back.

“Look at you,” he mumbles. “You’re such a fucking mess, kid”.

He gets a low breathless chuckle in response. Don fights him about lots of things, but he’s oddly resigned to the fact that he is disturbed most of the time and batshit insane on occasion.

There are rough scars all over his scalp. His nose and brow look slightly different from the Alkali corporate pass he still has with him, so couple that with the guilt and the memories, and Don is holding up relatively well.

Logan rubs the man’s eyebrow with his thumb, feeling the hard bone underneath. Then shakes his head and pushes Don’s thighs apart as far as they go, almost flat to the bed. Don’s rib cage rises like a wave, body trembling as Logan pushes in.

Logan strokes the seam behind Don’s balls with his thumb to counterpoint the brutal stretch with the ticklish sensation; rubs the stretched hole, so tight around himself.

Don reaches out for him, the shoulder of his damaged arm giving a sympathetic twitch as well. He connects with his teeth first, giving Logan’s jawline a sharp bite, nibbles down with throat, too, and along Logan’s lips when he finally leans for the kiss.

The mouth around his tongue is as hot and wet as the tight ass around his dick. For the shortest moment, Don has him stuck in place and time. He knows then that he has Don trapped, too.

He wraps his hands around Don’s shoulders as the hard thighs clench and tighten around him.

Don drops his forehead down Logan’s shoulder and flows with the brutal rhythm. Logan maybe doesn’t have enough breath for a fast fuck, but hard he can give any day of the week.

Logan feels nails at the back of his head, scratching until they start stroking instead.

He touches Logan like this sometimes, like he deserves it, like there is a place between them for this. It feels foreign and against the instinct — the first urge is to shake it off immediately. But it feels so good to lean into the hand.

Don would laugh if he had any air left for it. He’s gasping instead, skin red, but it conveys the message still.

Logan licks his palm and reaches down between them to grab the other man’s dick and balls with one hand, squeezing, tearing the orgasm out of him, violent and painful like he’s wounding him instead of setting free.

A sharp hiss that follows lasts as long as Don’s lungs allow. Logan has to grab his thighs again to stop them from bucking after a while.

He finishes himself the way he wants to — slow and easy. It doesn’t take long. Overstimulated, Don’s body squeezes him hard each time he makes the tiniest twitch inside, and he’s groaning into the man’s sweaty chest, feeling the fingers in his hair again.

They share the cigar afterwards - Don’s more of a cigarette man himself, the herbal stuff, but their supply is as limited as their combined budget is, so he takes what he can get. Ashtray rests on Don’s stomach, moving slightly as Logan scratches through his light pubic hair.

He massages the skin rhythmically and wonders if he can make Don come again, just to make sure he sleeps — he definitely needs a few extra hours — but at some point, he notices the man has already passed out, face flush to his chest.

As he finishes the cigar himself, a pleasant buzz through his muscles lulling him to sleep, and settles in. Don sighs and burrows further into him and taking the moment he can get away with, Logan rubs the shoulder of that other arm they don’t talk about.

It feels colder than the rest of Don, but at least this Logan can fix. He can have the whole man in his grip for a short moment and even remember the feeling in the morning.


End file.
